Golden Girl by Mari Mancusi Page B

throat. Hunter knew who my father was. Which meant he knew who I was. So much for anonymity land.
    Hunter groaned. “No, you moron. Bruce Miller,” he spit out. “You know, best friends forever with Cy Masters, the guy who owns this place? The one who signs your mom’s paycheck every week?”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œSo everyone in this little shindig is going to get busted once she goes home and blabs about our secret spot to dear old dad.” He scowled, then added, “You’ll see. Tomorrow this place will be swarming with ski patrol.”
    â€œI wouldn’t do that,” I blurted out, forgetting for a second I wasn’t supposed to be hearing any of this. But how dare Hunter accuse me of something like that? He didn’t know me. He didn’t know anything about me. How dare he try to scare Logan off?
    â€œSure you wouldn’t, sweetheart,” Hunter sneered, glancing over at me. Then he turned back to Logan, cuffing him on the head. “Nice work, dude. Wait till I tell Chris.”
    And with that, he turned and stormed off back toward the slopes, dragging his snowboard behind him. I watched him go, steam practically coming out of my ears.
    Logan approached me, an apologetic look on his face. “Don’t listen to him,” he chided me. “He can be a real jerk.” Then he smiled shyly. “And I’m glad you’re here.”
    â€œI wouldn’t tell my dad,” I said again, not sure why I was still arguing the fact.
    â€œI know you wouldn’t,” Logan assured me. He slung an arm around me, squeezing my shoulder with his hand. It was a friendly gesture, but my stomach warmed inside all the same. “Now come on. I think there’s marshmallows around here somewhere. And I make a killer s’more.”
    There were indeed, and soon we were knee deep in melted marshmallow and chocolate as we watched the riders and skiers take on the park, Roland’s guitar sound-tracking the night. Some of the riders were amazingly good, I realized, and a few could probably rival the Mountain Academy teams themselves. Which was pretty incredible, since they were, as Logan informed me, completely self-trained.
    â€œWe used to have a ski team at school,” he told me. “Sponsored by Green Mountain. But they cut funding two years ago. Along with the free-lift-ticket program for the staff’s families.” He frowned. “Makes it a lot harder for us to get on the mountain now to do any training.”
    I opened my mouth to ask why the program had been cut, but a sudden roar cut off my words, followed by blinding white lights streaming through the trees. The party erupted in chaos, everyone leaping to their feet as four snowmobiles approached the scene.
    â€œSki patrol!” someone screamed.
    All around us, partygoers started strapping on their boards and skis and flying down the mountain, abandoning the fire and supplies in an effort to avoid getting caught. Logan looked at me, white-faced, and gestured for me to put on my board.
    â€œQuick!” he cried. “We have to get out of here!”
    My heart pounded in my chest as I looked from him to my board, then down the steep hill. This was not good. Not good at all.
    Logan paused, in the middle of strapping his board to his feet. “Lexi?” he queried, his voice filled with anxiety.
    I swallowed hard. “Go on without me,” I told him. “I’ll catch up.”
    To my surprise, Logan started unstrapping his board.
    â€œWhat are you doing?”
    â€˜I’m not leaving you.”
    My heart leaped at his words. “But you have to!”
    â€œCome on, Logan!” Hunter appeared from out of nowhere, board already strapped to his feet. “Chris will kill me if I let you get caught again. Remember what ski patrol said last time.”
    But Logan just stubbornly shook his head, digging his board into the snow. “I’m staying with